


The Garden at Minas Tirith

by laEsmeralda



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Sam work together to mend a rift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garden at Minas Tirith

What was once a garden is little more than scorched earth and dry husks. Pippin had found it in the service of the Steward, attending him on his private walks, and something of it had touched him. This morning, at breakfast, Pippin had been compelled to tell Legolas about it. 

Legolas looks around, seeking where to begin. The mosses have survived, but have browned. Everything else looks dead. "I see that no rain has fallen for you during Sauron's sieges," Legolas says aloud, for in his world, he does not stand here alone. "The humans have placed you with care and then abandoned you for their worries. It is not their fault that they are short-sighted beings. We must learn to forgive them that." 

He feels a particular twinge in his heart at the sight of what was a strong sapling, curled and tortured in its thirst-throes. Despite its appearance of death, he approaches, and touches the trunk. Gasping with the unexpected pulse of life, Legolas then feels a surge of anger, for the tree is but five or six paces from the fountain. It has leaned, slowly, toward the ever-gurgling water to no avail.

Legolas strides to where he has placed his tools by the broken gate and lifts the two buckets. Filling them, he goes to the tree and pours one about the roots, the other as far up as he can reach, letting the rills wet the bark as the rain would. First, there is a burst of joy from the sapling, then an outcry of thirst from the entire garden. Legolas sighs and hurries about, easing the suffering plant by plant. He begins to sing.  
*******

Sam has been wandering, Frodo's quiet heavy on his mind. He hopes that walking will ease the constriction in his chest, but he has come a distance already without relief for it. Then, he hears music, a voice, clear and true. "Legolas," he says, with the first delight of this day, and follows the sound. It is a sweet song, encouraging, but with undertones of sadness. He feels it is the singer's grief and not the song itself that makes his eyes fill. Sam brushes the tears away and steps around the breached wall.

Legolas kneels by a sapling, digging his fingers into the earth. Sam is struck, as he always is, by the otherworldly sight of the elf. Legolas is deeply absorbed in loosening the baked soil from around the tree roots, and Sam circles wide to where he can be seen from a fair distance, careful not to startle Legolas or end his song. He smiles to see that despite being surrounded by gardening tools, Legolas is digging with his bare hands, breaking the hard soil and stroking the roots of the tree with affection. 

The song trails off and Sam finds himself looking into sorrowful eyes. Legolas attempts a smile, but it is wan. 

"Shall I help you?" Sam asks.

"I would be glad for it, Master Gardener."

Sam grins despite his own recent tears. "You've watered the whole place by hand." He can smell the damp, the renewed cool of plants soaking up the precious fluid. "But you've not broken a sweat. I've come to regard sweating as a necessary part of gardening," he says wryly, "the plants expect it."

"I'm afraid that I cannot oblige them. So it is even more to the good that you are here." Legolas' mood lifts just a little with the banter. 

Sam begins to work the other side of the tree, also with his bare hands, understanding that the sapling is too fragile to withstand the slip of a tool. With amazement, he sees that the bark has already changed where Legolas has touched, healing before his eyes. "That is quite a green thumb you have, Prince," he says with some envy.

"Please, do not call me that, Sam, I have never worn the title with ease. It is of no use in this place nor is it of any consequence with you."

Sam nods with comprehension. He risks a glance up, still shy. Legolas is a dear friend, a companion of the hardest of times, but they have spent little time together with the long separation of the quest. Their eyes meet again, and this time they both smile. "Legolas, then."

"What brings you here?" Legolas notes that in these weeks, the bloom of health has returned to Sam, but he knows that his friend is not happy.

"Trying to walk off a mood," replies Sam. "And then, I heard your song," Sam's voice breaks at the sound recalled. He swallows and falls silent.

"My apologies, Sam, I am aware that I am not the best of company at the moment."

"Neither am I." 

"Perhaps that makes us the best of company for one another." 

They work for several minutes in silence, and Sam muses on how the notes of Legolas' voice still linger in his ears during the quiet. "I cannot stand to see Frodo suffer the loss of the Ring and of himself." He has blurted out the words aloud and looks up in surprise at his candor.

The dark eyes close for a moment. "Ah, you have struck upon the commonality of our sadness."

"If only you could mend him as you are healing this tree," Sam's voice is a mere whisper.

"I have not that power except with green things. It will require all of us for a time, Sam, to help him recover. Yet, he is forever changed, and I fear there is no help for it." Tears well in Legolas' eyes, and he looks back to the task at hand. "The lighthearted hobbit is gone, no matter his attempts to reassure us."

"So is the lighthearted elf." Sam's simple observation draws an unhappy laugh from Legolas.

"I have been brokenhearted before, Sam. For me it will pass. I will put myself to a task of renewal, do what I may to help, and in time, I will renew as well." 

Sam sits back on his heels and watches a drop roll down Legolas' fine nose and follows it with his eyes as it falls to splash against the tree. The root under his hand quivers, and Sam feels an unanticipated surge pass through him. He stifles a gasp. 

He looks back to Legolas' face as the elf continues to work the roots. Sam has always seen the beauty in him, but not in this way. Another drop falls and spatters against the bark. He aches to wipe away the wetness from that face. But he does not, knowing that he would not be welcome, that he would streak the translucent skin with dirt. 

Reluctantly, he pulls his gaze away from Legolas' face. Now, he cannot help but note what he has overlooked before in his awe of the ethereal elves. Underneath the plain linen shirt and work leggings breathes a very real body. Without his travel or battle garb, without ceremonial robes, Legolas is muscle and sinew and blood.

Because Sam is allowing him to weep in silence, without commentary, without intrusion, Legolas lets the tears flow. After several more drops have fallen, a tiny branch, a mere twig, suddenly bursts into leaf.

"Are your tears doing that?" Sam whispers. He wonders if the desire belongs to the tree or to himself, and pulls his hand free. The sensation does not leave him.

The elf smiles gently. "I think not, my friend, it is the water and the tending."

"But so quickly?"

Legolas shrugs. "It has been waiting a long time for aid." 

Sam buries his fingers into the softening earth again, the rich smell reaching his nose at last. He sighs and reaches under a tangle of roots to loosen a stubborn clump of damp earth. His hand brushes Legolas' palm. This time, the surge of desire is fierce. He looks up.

Legolas' eyes widen in surprise, though they are focused on the base of the tree. Slowly, very slowly, they lift to meet Sam's green eyes. The archer does not smile, but his hand does not pull away. 

Sam reads puzzlement in the ancient face, and his first thought is to make a self-deprecating comment about slipping, but words will not issue. He watches from a distance, it seems, as Legolas leans closer, moment by moment drawing nearer, his fingers catching Sam's more tightly under the earth.

Sam feels warmth begin to radiate against his skin, and resists the nearly irresistible urge to close his eyes. Instead of pulling back, Sam leans forward, closing the last inch. His lips taste damp salt and a burst of fresh clover caught between his teeth. Brown eyes now fill his vision, blurred by closeness.

Legolas allows his lips to melt against the willing, tanned flesh. His free hand pulls from the earth and reaches behind Sam's shoulders to spread against the sun-warmed shirt and press the solid flesh beneath.

A breath of pleasure escapes Sam, gusting past Legolas' cheek. For a year, he has been about his duty, survival and support for Frodo, devoting his every moment to that task, feeling with every heartbeat of Frodo's decline that he has failed. The only pleasure has been to watch Frodo eat, to urge him to sleep and see him wake again, to help him with the next step. Now, he nearly whimpers from the pounding of his blood against the wall of his chest, the tingle of delight that reminds him of neglected luxuries.

Legolas feels that response and answers, sliding his hips closer, leaning back and pulling Sam against him. Their hands slip free from the roots and dirt, clasping one another's arms and shoulders. He reclines into the dried moss and ghostly leaves, taking Sam's weight onto him, keeping the kiss intact.

It is Sam who breaks free first. "My hands are dirty." His face is flushed, and in his shyness, he does not know how else to say what he is thinking.

"So are mine. What of it?" The elf smiles. "It is clean earth, healing and fresh." He reaches to pull his shirt upward, baring his stomach. Then, he takes one of Sam's hands, marked with damp earth, and places it on his naked skin.

Sam's breath catches at the feel of velvety softness beneath his fingers. "How can you want me to touch you?" Tears are on his own lashes now. He knows his hardness is pressing into the elf's thigh, his want undisguised. There is no point in hiding, but he needs to ask why.

Legolas' head is relaxed back into the mosses, his throat arching upward. "Passion is a mystery, Samwise. Do not analyze it, enjoy it." His hand strays into Sam's messy hair. "Have I misread your eyes?" 

"No." Sam sighs and allows his hips to shift, pressing harder into the muscles that yield just right for him. He moves to straddle Legolas. Both the long hands slide down his body to grasp his hips, to pull him tighter.

"Yes," Legolas breathes, arching his lower back. "That is what I want."

Sam has not touched another like this, save once, with silly laughter and blind groping in the dark, hands sticky with ale. But he has explored himself many times, not only more than enough to know that Legolas' body cannot be pitying him, but enough to sense what to do. He rocks forward, feeling the quiver in both their stomachs in response.

"It has been a long time," Legolas breathes, "too long." He reaches between them, insinuating his hand to find Sam's buttons, then his own laces. He pauses. "I would like to feel your skin, if that is well with you."

Sam can only groan his assent, and he lifts a little on his arms to accommodate. Soon, their naked flesh slides together and they simultaneously sigh, causing a mutual chuckle. Then, Sam's brow wrinkles, but he stifles his concern.

Legolas smiles, a dazzling and rare smile, and Sam finds himself falling closer until he is tasting it. His worries fade with the feel of generous lips moving over and under his. He recalls what it is to be a hobbit, to appreciate a fine meal, a perfect cup of tea, a sunny afternoon, the bloom of a healthy flower. He moans into Legolas' mouth, and feels the vibration returned in kind. 

For the elf, Sam is the afternoon sunshine personified. Legolas feels alive. Not distant, not reserved, not focused on the next battle, but living and breathing and nearly coming already. His nerve endings seem to extend far beyond his body. He thrusts up and is answered with returned pressure, clinging hands, and a soft tongue. His lips pull away from Sam's only to taste the muscular neck, to nip and lick and toy. His hand returns between them, crumbs of dirt turning to a slick of mud with the wet of arousal.

"Uh. Wait," Sam sucks in a breath and struggles against the inevitable.

"I cannot wait, beloved friend. Please, do not make me wait."

The beautiful, pleading voice is far too much, and with a deep cry, Sam shudders hard, his feet curling tight against Legolas' thighs. 

The clear voice speaks loudly of pleasure, as Legolas arches up and joins his release to Sam's.

They breathe heavily, sighing and panting, the bliss overwhelming any sense of embarrassment. 

Legolas is the first to break the silence. "Sam, you are lovely," he says.

Sam tempers his breath, considers his answer with eyes tight shut. "I am honored, Legolas, to share your sadness, to share this garden."

"As it will be again, a garden," replies the elf, his eyes flickering open. He sees, above him, the sapling, renewed with fresh leaves and tender blossoms. He rolls with Sam, so that they are side by side, looking up at the tree. He whispers, "Thank you. I have been so alone."

"No, neither of us has been alone on this quest, though it may have felt so through many of our days."

They lie quietly, watching the tree and the sky above as it changes from afternoon to dusk. No one troubles them, the tireless, the watchers, the senses of the Fellowship. 

At last, thinking of Sam, Legolas says, "Let us go and make ourselves fit for dinner." 

And Sam laughs his first lighthearted laugh of the year.

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 2003. Beta: Libitina.


End file.
